


blondes have more fun

by Heavenward (PreludeInZ)



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Boys Become Thunderbirds, Chapter rewrite, F/M, Gift Fic, I don't know anything about WASP except that Swallow writes the best possible version of it, Lovely girl is rather fond of dumb boy, Shenanigans, Wasp - Freeform, antics, duel of the mild mannered alter egos, no redheads were harmed in the making of this chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:13:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludeInZ/pseuds/Heavenward
Summary: So, @thelastswallow posted a chapter of the fabulous and amazing Boys Become Thunderbirds, and therefore I felt a certain obligation to shower her with presents. So here’s the flipside of my absolute favourite chapter of anything ever written.





	blondes have more fun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WinterSwallow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterSwallow/gifts).
  * Inspired by [That Which Tears Us Apart, Ties Us Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4919173) by [WinterSwallow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterSwallow/pseuds/WinterSwallow). 
  * Inspired by [The Trouble With Redheads](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8037355) by [WinterSwallow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterSwallow/pseuds/WinterSwallow). 



The difference between wasps and bees is that bees, at least, are useful.

Suffice it to say, Penelope has not formed a terribly positive impression of the World Aquanautic Something-or-Other Patrol. Oh, it’s all very impressive, in its way, she supposes. The base itself is...well, it occupies space, that’s for certain. And it certainly occupies a great deal of it. For the way it looks, it’s Penelope’s considered opinion that it could probably do to be rather smaller. It would benefit from the emulation of the iceberg, rather than the conch, all lewdly pink and awkwardly shaped and filled with the roar of so much sourceless white noise, unfortunately not attributable to the sea.

But questionable aesthetics held entirely aside, the fact that the place is military is at least to her advantage. Pretty much any claim she should want to make is easily falsified with the proper paperwork, and it’s therefore been possible to bury her origins in a mire of bureaucracy.

To that end, she’s falsified herself to the point where she can pass for a twenty-one year old redhead out of Boston, Massachusetts (spelling this had honestly been the most difficult part of forging her credentials), and mired herself in the identity of one Lilian Amanda Schloss-Krunfield.

Lilian’s is hardly the first identity Penelope’s assumed, but she’s developed something of a soft spot for the plucky redhead. Youngest sister of seven brothers. Indifferent attendant of some public school, streetwise if not booksmart. Easily persuaded by the recruitment promise of an exciting career with this nonsensical and sodden organization, where everything seems to be _damp_ at all times, and the threats posed to the world’s oceans are not so much acidification and overfishing and the multiplicity of oceanic trade routes, but encroaching squidmen, the burgeoning mermish onslaught, and the slow but inevitable advance of the crimson tide, against which they shall all be rendered helpless.

She’s not sure just what that last one is, but it sounds rather like something that she puts up with once a month, and which has hardly ever rendered her helpless.

Lilian’s a bit of a dim bulb, though, and so the doctrine of most of the aforementioned has been received with widened blue eyes and the slightest part of her rosebud lips. She’s been appropriately shocked and awed by the revelation of things beyond her previously prosaic apprehension of the world in which she lived—or at least, of the world beneath the waves.

Such is the nature of your average WASP cadet, evidently, as evidenced by the slack-jawed and dull-eyed comportment of her temporary comrades in arms.

Lady Penelope is not cut out to be a WASP cadet.

But at least she needn’t be one for very much longer.

Twenty-four hours is her timeline, and so far she’s spent eighteen of them, judiciously, infiltrating her way into the WASP base and establishing her strategy. Her intent is the theft of a secret, though secrets seem as though they’re in abundant supply around here. Secrets bleed out of the upper echelons of the chain of command, secrets paper the walls. If they were a better calibre of secret, she might at least be interested, but no. So far they’re secrets of Squidmen and the Mermish (apparently Merfolk is not a preferred term, as it humanizes the enemy), and are made no more convincing by the declaration that it’s an engine of Capital-C- _Conspiracy_ that keeps these secrets secret at all.

To the credit of the cadet who’s currently rambling his way through _telling_ her these secrets, conspiracy or not, he at least has a rather nicer jaw and rather brighter eyes than the rest of the rank and file so far.

But puppyish brown eyes and straight white teeth aside, he _also_ , and most importantly, has a secret of his own.

It’s really that smile that gives him away. To the observant and expertly trained eye, it’s the smile of someone who thinks he’s getting away with something.

So she’d been waiting for him in the corridor outside the officer’s mess, with her blue eyes appropriately wide and her lower lip caught between her teeth, radiating absolute _befuddlement_ as she stared up at a map of the Conch, and pretended that she hadn’t committed its essentials to memory within her first hour aboard, and the typical movements of its major players within the first four. Within the first six she’d had the basics of her strategy outlined, and all she’d needed was to find an unwitting accomplice, and win her way into even just the shallow waters of their confidence.

Apparently all this takes with Cadet Cooper Waverly is looking up, tilting her head just-so, and shyly returning his sunshiney grin.

It’s taken Penelope six hours to determine the basics of her strategy. Twelve to be quite certain that she had correctly positioned herself with respect to the means and the opportunity to steal the desired secret. It’s taken the full eighteen to refine the details, and accounting for a certain amount of improvisation, WASP Cadet Cooper Waverly figures into her plan to no small degree.

So she’s quite content to keep her eyes wide and her smile just below the surface, while he rambles and meanders at length about the current state of affairs at WASP, before he finally gets to the point.

“Anyway,” he says, and there’s that smile again. “Don’t worry about it. I was like that when I first got here, too.” He does a sort of shimmying shuffle of the two food trays he carries, balances both across one arm and frees up his other hand, starts to manipulate the map on the wall. He's impressively nimble, at least.

Penelope is the sort of person who wants to comment that both of these must have gone stone cold by now, but she’s been here long enough to have made an attempt at some of the food, and the opportunity to eat it at its intended temperature doesn’t go far enough to improve it. So instead Lilian dips her head slightly, looking at her newly shined shoes and feigning that coquettish shyness again. Pretends she doesn’t hear that deliberate intake of breath, just a little closer to her ear than it should be, and the soft, barest suggestion of a dreamy sigh that follows it. He clears his throat immediately after and says, “See, it’s right here?”

She looks up and smiles, and swears those brown eyes melt a little bit, dark chocolate on a hot day, only it’s entirely too chilly down here for _that_ to be the case. “Right.” She squints obligingly at the newly cleaned up map and then nods. “Oh, yah, I guess it’s not that fah afta all.”

“Yah… I mean, yeah. You’re almost there. Here, lemme—” Cooper indicates it her wrist and she holds her arm out obligingly, steps just a little bit closer, flirting with the edge of his personal space. A quick draw of breath through _her_ nose credits him with some fresh, citrus-y scent that’s _probably_ not regulation, but which improves her opinion of him that much further, as he quickly inputs the correct data to load a map of the Conch into the comm on her wrist.

Penelope knows what the answer will be, but Lilian is nowhere near so observant, and glances up hopefully, with the tiniest flutter of her eyelashes. “You’re not coming to mess, are ya?” she asks, and the tip of her tongue moistens her lips slightly, before she continues, “Only I don’t know anyone, and I thaught maybe we could…”

He’s not going to last very long, with that secret of his, if his face keeps telling every last emotion he has in the exact moment that he has it. A flicker of temptation cedes to a brief moment of heartbreak, and then he manages to assume the dutiful expression of someone with things to do and places to be, as regrettable as that is. “Sorry, wish I could but I’m assigned to Mess Eight. And,”—at this he transfers the second tray off of the crook of his arm and back to his other hand, gestures with it apologetically—“I gotta go meet someone.”

“Aw, right. ‘course.” Penelope has perfectly crafted Lilian’s slight and subtle disappointment to achieve the maximum impact. The winsome smile that follows it is equally as well-calibrated, and those Labrador puppy eyes of his are just so, _so_ sorry to leave her. “Then, it was good to meetya. Maybe we’ll see each other again.”

She salutes, a little clumsily, but doesn’t expect him to return it. Instead he swallows and nods, and she notes the entirely-too-strong-for-the-likes-of-WASP line of his jaw again. “I hope so,” he tells her, and she’s pleased to be able to tell that he means it.

Bless.

“Bye,” she tells him, and knows that they _absolutely_ will.

And then, because in spite of the fact that he’s an absolute and utter patsy, she quite likes him—Penelope slips sideways and proceeds down the corridor past him. She’s very deliberate in the way her hips move as she walks away—the sort of distinctly un-military saunter that usually requires heels and would _probably_ get her pegged by a higher officer as some sort of mermaidish infiltrator. Still. The more bait on the hook the better.

And it’s not _quite_ intentional when she glances back, just to make sure he saw. Of course he did. And the prettily rose coloured blush that spreads across her cheeks is possibly not quite the sort of thing she can do on command. But the grin that lights up his features seems like assurance that he’ll go out of his way to make sure they see each other again. The tiny satisfied smirk that she permits herself once she rounds the corner is just pleasure at the notion of a job well done.

And potentially, possibly, the private admission that perhaps WASP isn’t actually _all_ bad.

* * *

Apparently there’s nowhere in the world quite as prickly and paranoid as a WASP base. She wouldn’t have believed it, but eighteen hours as Cadet Schloss-Krunfield have been enough to change her mind. Apparently an organization whose primary function is listening to the sorts of sounds that fill the depths of the sea tends to invent reasons for all the things they hear. Oh, they get to the bottom of it all eventually. To their credit, most of the time they’re happy to prove themselves wrong and find a newly opened methane vent or a distant ice quake. But until then, it’s mermen and squidmen and fishmen and really entirely too many varieties of men, in Penelope’s estimation.

Still. For all the supposed paranoia, it’s not as though it’s been tremendously difficult to infiltrate their ranks. Penelope’s almost a little disappointed.

Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward is the heir to her father’s fortune, and is similarly possessed of her father’s intelligence, charm, and proclivity for the acquisition of information. She’s been peeking through keyholes and listening at doors ever since she still wore her hair in plaits. It only makes _sense_ to telegraph this interest—obsession, if she’s being honest—out into a useful career. Before the end of the year she’ll be a graduate of Oxford College, and fixed to begin properly training for a career in international espionage.

That, after all, was her father’s primary condition. To finish her schooling first, and to stop casting dewy, hopeful eyes in SPECTRUM’s direction, and instead to enlist her services with British Intelligence, like a respectable member of the aristocracy.

And so this, right now, at the moment, is not proper training. This is a lark, a dalliance. This is something her father had bet her she wouldn’t be able to do.

Penelope knows her father well enough to believe that the issued challenge is one of layered meaning and duplicitous motive, and that the bet in question is a test, first and foremost. He’d told her where to go and what he wanted and who had it and even why he wanted it, but not, crucially, how exactly to get it.

What Lord Hugh wants is a state secret. What Lady Penelope _has_ , at the moment, is a small, rather mundane sort of secret that she hopes to leverage in the name of acquiring the larger, far more exciting secret.

Early on in her twenty-four hour window, she’d found her way into one of the Conch’s myriad security hubs, closed for repairs. It had been a reasonably trivial matter to bring it back online, and from there all she’d needed was a stolen security badge. She’d spent a clandestine couple hours flicking through assorted security screens, with her eyes peeled for anything that seemed noteworthy. She’d had the luck to come across a hammock, strung up in the sort of place where hammocks are not meant to be, an archival recording room way down deep in the bowels of the Conch. Precisely the sort of curious anomaly Penelope had been trawling for. The camera had even been turned out of true, swivelled so as to point away from a broad view of the room. She’d swivelled it back into a better orientation. From there it had simply been a matter of winding the video backward, until she found out just who was using the place, and then plugging his face into the security system’s facial recognition software.

He’s grinning like a loon in his ID portrait, too. Penelope wonders how he’d gotten away with that one, as she’d been strictly instructed to keep a perfectly straight face.

But then, she’d also had the sides of her neck checked for gills, while they’d entirely missed her coppery red wig. So.

She’s not sure just what exactly Cooper’s secret is, just that he has one. It’s nestled within several others. She’s fairly sure that his name isn’t actually Cooper, though if it’s a name he’s assumed, she wonders why he hadn’t chosen something slightly less stupid sounding. She’s also starting to wonder if he might not _quite_ be old enough to actually be enrolled in WASP. That would explain a lot.

It would also be just a _little_ bit disappointing, because Penelope is certainly almost old enough to be enrolled in WASP herself, and probably shouldn’t flirt _too_ much with anyone who’d need to lie about his age. She decides to operate under the assumption that he’s twenty. Twenty is nice and safe. He's probably not younger than nineteen, even if he's not twenty. He'd _better_ not be younger than nineteen.

Anyway. Not as though she’s not got secrets of her own. Several secrets, nested into one another. They certainly have secrets in common, even if he doesn’t know so. At the moment, her largest secret is that she is not Lilian Amanda Schloss-Krunfield. She’s obviously not a member of WASP security. And she’s _certainly_ not meant to have spent the past twenty minutes, watching Cadet Cooper Waverly as he goes about the business of whatever _his_ secret is.

So far, the deepest extent of his secret seems to be a private holocomm, squirrelled away in the very depths of the base. Penelope doesn’t have the benefit of audio (and she curses whoever’s responsible for the security set up here, for denying her what was certain to be some _very_ interesting audio), but even without it, it’s plain that Cooper’s up to _something_.

Not, again, that she really has room to comment.

It’s the nature of the beast and the awkward angle on the camera that she can’t quite make out who he’s talking to, but there’s that quick, sunshine smile again. It’s such a perplexing sort of smile, the sort that makes her lean her elbow on the desk in the security office, put her chin in her hand, and _frown_ at Cooper Waverly, for being so oddly familiar.

Maybe that’s why she thinks she likes him.

She needs to start to get ready. Her dress uniform hangs in the corner of the small security office, though it’s a nightmare of yellow and gray and _polyester_ and her skin crawls to even think of putting it on, so she’s not in a tremendous hurry. There’s still an hour and a half before the Gala, and she’s happy to kill most of that time in her quiet, private little hideout. She’s found an electric kettle and pilfered some teabags from Mess Seven, so that at least, is a net positive. And Cooper’s still chatting to his mysterious, halfway obscured hologram, although by this point he’s also shrugged out of his jacket and wears only a plain white t-shirt underneath. She wears one, too, it’s just part of the uniform. But on her it’s a baggy, slouchy thing and does her no favours. His must run a size too small. Or something. Definitely a little snug in the shoulders. She’s a little surprised by just how muscular his forearms are.

Penelope tweaks the zoom on the camera _ever_ so slightly, but freezes immediately when he looks up at the sound of the whirring lens. Cooper’s got _alarmingly_ good hearing. He squints at the camera for just a moment, before shrugging and resuming his conversation.

She finds herself watching him for a further ten minutes, sipping her tea and musing, before she starts to get a little self-conscious and turns back to the other security screens, browsing around for anything else that might be interesting. Nothing really springs up, and she still catches herself glancing back at that lower lefthand window. Out of boredom and idle curiosity, and in the interests of seeing if she can find anything else to use against him, she pulls his profile up.

`Name: Cooper Leroy Waverly`

She reflects that it must be a terrible shame to be hated by one’s parents.

`Birthdate: March 6, 2036`

An _Aries_ , not that Penelope goes in for that sort of thing. Anyway it probably isn’t true anyway, because she’s a Capricorn and there’d definitely been more chemistry than one might have expected, in a first meeting between an Earth and a Fire sign.

`Experience and Relevant Skills: 3 Years as a lifeguard, with Red Cross Certification in lifesaving, first aid and CPR instruction`

_That’s_ the first impression she’s formed of anyone at WASP having anything remotely like a useful skillset. She finds herself hoping it’s true. He certainly _looks_ like a lifeguard, all golden blond and tan. In fact, Penelope had made note of the fact that he’d been the first person she’d encountered _with_ a tan, despite the fact that they’re riding the line of the equator, WASP cadets as a whole seem to be fishbelly pale.

`Height: 5’4”`

Well, no. That’s just inaccurate. Penelope—and by extension Cadet Schloss-Krunfield—is a hundred and sixty centimetres, and Cooper is almost a head taller than she is. A solid half a foot, at least. Comfortably tall, not so tall as to make her feel tiny. And, to that end...

A few quick keystrokes and she’s pulled up the back end of the form. She pages her way down and corrects the field, to reflect a conservative estimate of 5’9”. Satisfied with this, her eyes skim further down, looking for any other irregularities.

`Weight: 400 lbs`

Someone’s had a _field day_ back here. No. Probably more like a hundred and fifty.

`Birthplace: Nantucket, Massachusetts`

That’s almost certainly not a real place, but she can’t be sure, so she leaves it.

`Next of Kin: Brian Wilson, Lucille Ball`

This is an organization that worries about Squidmen and the Lost Continent of Atlantis, and in the meantime, there are two decidedly human imposters in their ranks, both with their own intents and objectives, and at least _one_ of them hasn’t even made a concerted effort not to be caught.

In the corner of the page, there’s a bright yellow and black striped ribbon, some sort of official flag. She taps it, and is directed to a page where notes have been made.

`Gills: None evident`

`Fingers: Non-webbed, minor scarring on backs of hands.`

`Toes: Non-webbed, no evident scarring`

`Dorsal examination: No evidence of existence or recent removal of any cartilaginous tissue`

`NB: Cadet has displayed abnormally fast lap times during recreational free swims. Standard procedure recommends the surreptitious administration of Hutter’s Solution and a 24hr period of observation. Muscle cramps, weakness, fatigue and shaking are anticipated in normal human subjects, but sloughing of skin, projectile vomiting, and/or skeletal protrusion must be reported immediately to the Security Officer on Duty.`

Oh for heaven’s _sake_.

Well, _no_. She’s not going to let _that_ stand, and further, if she can work out exactly who this nonsense should be reported to, she’s going to report it. _Skeletal protrusion_. Honestly. Her fingers highlight the added note and she deletes it with a flourish. In a moment of inspiration, she amends:

`NB: Second cousin to Captain Tempest. Transfer from GDF Naval Academy. Highly praised by previous instructors. Permitted to smile at WASP.`

She permits herself a private giggle at that, and closes the form. After all, he’s very sweet and a nice boy. He certainly doesn’t deserve to be _dosed_ with anything by some paranoid conspiracy nut, just because he can swim a bit. The poor thing. They’re dreadful here at WASP, really they are. He probably needs all the help he can get. She’s not going to be doing him any favours in the short term, but it’s just possible that a small favour in the long term might make up for it.

Assuming, that is, that she hasn’t gotten him court-martialed before the evening’s out.

* * *

The nice thing about being Cadet Schloss-Krunfield is that Cadet Schloss Krunfield doesn’t actually _belong_ here. And thus, there’s nowhere in particular that Cadet Schloss-Krunfield is actually expected to _be_. All Penelope needs to do is turn up, look as though she expects to be expected. When asked what she’s doing, she simply needs to pick a superior officer at random and say, “Oh, Lieutenant Strauss sent me to see if you needed any extra hands.”

Of course they'd needed extra hands.

The Gala’s in full swing by the time she decides to make her entrance. She spots Lord Hugh Creighton-Ward almost immediately, but resists the urge to saunter over and offer him champagne. This would be amateurish and would probably be greeted with justifiable disdain from her father. If she were obtuse about it, he’d probably even go so far as to snag a cufflink in her wig and pull it right off her head in the middle of everything, and serve her right.

So she keeps her distance.

Cooper is far more interesting to watch, anyway, because he’s behaving like an absolute _fool_.

He moves oddly, spends extended periods of time staring in a single direction, stock still. When he _does_ remember that he’s meant to be moving through the room, he moves in odd patterns. Occasionally he swerves wildly and points himself towards the wrong side of the room or overcorrects his course and veers away from someone who’d looked interested in what he has on offer. She’s seen him turn right back around and head in the same direction he’s come from. At one point he hides behind a palm tree. He’s eaten a full dozen of the shrimp he’s meant to be serving, and that’s only since she started watching.

What Penelope can’t figure out is _why_.

Or, well. She supposes she understands about the shrimp, the food here is _terrible_.

It’s possible that he’s simply not an experienced server. Penelope isn’t either, per se, but she’s been to hundreds of large social functions and been told, in not so many words, to spend her time observing the catering staff. Once when she was seventeen, she’d paid a similarly sized and shaped bartender at a consulate dinner four hundred pounds to swap outfits, and had spent three hours pretending that she knew how to mix drinks. She’d made the cost of the swap back in tips, and had generously donated these to her accomplice at the end of the evening. And then, aglow with the success and basking in her father’s irritation, she’d also let her keep the dress.

But that’s not quite it.

Cooper’s fingers keep drifting to his ear, then coming up just short of touching it. Every time he does, his gaze gets distant, seems to settle on some middle point of distance, halfway across the room. He’s very careful about the way he positions his tray, and it never seems to pass in front of the first button on his torso, he always moves it from hand to hand either over or under the level of his collarbone, instead of just straight across.

Very curious.

Everything she’s observed about his behaviour is, however, incidental to what she’s actually watching for, which is the depletion of the tray he carries. It’s probably a good thing he’s been helping this along, because he certainly doesn’t seem to be meeting the needs of the party goers. He’s nearly out of shrimp, in any case. It’s time for her to put herself in position.

The kitchens are separated from the ballroom by a long hallway, which branches and forks at several points. Penelope picks a likely looking access corridor, and makes her way down it. It curves slightly, the way all the hallways in the Conch do, and so she doesn’t actually need to go very far from the main hallway in order to disappear from sight.

There’s a convenient bulkhead upon which she can place her champagne tray, and she puts it down delicately. Then she selects a slender flute of bubbly champagne. She holds it up to the light and notes that the corridor’s LEDs are unkind to what was a lovely pale gold colour in the ballroom. She brings the flute to her nose and inhales, appreciates the aroma, fruity and slightly floral. Her first sip is delicate, and despite the promise of the wine’s bouquet, it turns out to be a rather inferior vintage, with a slight metallic tinge and a failure to deliver on the promised floral fruitiness. Still. One does what one must.

Penelope downs the glass in a manner that would _appal_ her father, hiccoughs briefly, and then raps the empty vessel smartly against the edge of the tray. It shatters, scattering pieces of glass around the feet of the other flutes upon the tray. She places the stem carefully amidst the shards.

The scene duly set, she backs herself up against the wall. One deep breath, two. A careful, slow stillness, radiating outward from her center. Smoothing over all her own dry, sharp observations. Softening all her edges, dulling herself down. Ceding Penelope’s pale, aristocratic gold to Lilian’s brassy, common copper.

Penelope is an heiress to the fourth richest family in England. She is loved by her father and was wanted by her mother. She’s pretty, smart (brilliant, more accurately), and privileged. She knows herself, knows what she is, and knows what she’s doing. She knows where she belongs and where she’s going. She’s never in her life made a choice that hasn’t been carefully considered, or carefully considered for her.

Lilian's not nearly so lucky.

Lilian’s the eighth child of a family that probably should have stopped at three. She’s _aware_ of her father, and aware that he _left_ , and in his absence she fights with her mother. Aware that half her brothers are half-brothers, and aware that she shares her red hair with _none_ of them. She’s always been told that at least she’s pretty, but her prettiness is the sort that’s flat and unrefined, cheap and tawdry. She’s not smart, but not dumb enough not to know it. Being held back one grade had been bad enough, being held back by _two_ had been mortifying. She’s never known a summer without summer school. And worst of all is that she’s always _tried_ , but hasn’t ever been rewarded for her efforts.

WASP had seemed like such a good idea at the time. So it had been a bit of an impulse, it had still seemed like the first thing she’d ever done in her life that might make a _difference_. And the recruiter at her high school had been so handsome, had looked so smart in the same uniform she wears now, the one that chafes at her neck and is more than a little too big for her, makes her feel small and _look_ ugly, clashes with the red hair that’s always been the only special thing about her. He’d promised that she could be part of something big and important, that the world below the seas was vast and beautiful, and that she could be a part of an elite force, responsible for keeping it safe and secure. That her grades weren’t as important as her spirit, and that he could see she had _plenty_ of that.

Only it turns out WASP is all the way on the other side of the country, and now she’s further away from home than she’s ever been. It turns out that her handsome recruiter is an exception, rather than the rule, and that the rest of the people she’s met so far have all been edgy and humourless, and they talk about things that she’s never heard of and doesn’t understand. She can’t tell which stories are just nonsense meant to scare the new recruits, and which are actual things she needs to be afraid of. It turns out there’s not even any smiling allowed at WASP, and it makes all of her fellow cadets and all of the officers and especially that mean, _nasty_ Rear Admiral Shore seem like they _hate_ her.

There’s only one person in this entire stupid, _ugly_ , confusing, _stupid_ base who’s even been the slightest bit nice to her, and even _he_ had brushed her off when she’d had tried to get him to come keep her company, even just for lunch, even just for ten minutes.

So Lilian’s got _plenty_ to cry about, even before Penelope takes the added precaution of dipping her dainty fingertips in a flute of bubbling champagne, and two drops of gold to sting at her tear ducts and get her started in earnest. She slides down the wall and with a great, shuddering deep breath, starts to sob.

Sobbing takes a great deal of effort, and is loud and horrifically undignified. Penelope, as a rule, does not tend to sob. Her tears are usually quiet, angry, and she sheds them as though they’re a commodity made more valuable by their scarcity. But loud and undignified are both qualities that perfectly suit Lilian, so she even goes so far as to permit herself a poorly stifled wail and a loud, messy sniffle. The acoustics in the corridor are excellent, and it’s not long before she hears the footsteps she’s been waiting for.

She lets him approach and shuffle his feet awkwardly for a few moments before she jerks her face up and allows surprise to chase embarrassment across her features, before she presses the heels of her hands against her eyes and tries to wipe her tears away. And then, “Hi… sorry… I was just…” She sniffles hugely again and stands back up, still with her back to the wall, like she’s been trapped. Coughs, once, but it doesn’t help and she continues with her voice still thick and a little bit choked, feeble, “I was taking five.”

Cooper Waverly, for whatever else is or isn’t true—accounting for the mysteries of name and age and actual occupation, whether _he’s_ a natural blond or secretly a redhead—is _probably_ the nicest person in WASP. Certainly he’s the nicest person she’s met so far, and given the fact that she’s due to make her exit within the hour, is probably the nicest person she’s _going_ to meet. He looks down at her now with a little divot of concern between his brows, and she feels the very tiniest twinge of guilt as he asks, gently, “You okay? Did something happen?”

And in that moment, she’s sure she _has_ him. It had been the quintessential point, the thing she’d needed to determine in that very first meeting—there’d been something she’d suspected but didn’t quite _know_ about Cooper Waverly. Cooper Waverly, WASP Cadet. Former Lifeguard. Cooper Waverly, who stops in hallways when he happens across pretty girls in need of help, even if he’s in the middle of something else, some entirely separate intrigue of his own.

It a fundamental truth about Cooper Waverly that he likes to come to the rescue.

What a shame for him.

* * *

Of course, what she hadn’t expected of Cooper Waverly was that he would just _take charge_.

A little more weeping, a little more playing dumb, and he’d jumped through hoops almost faster than she could hold them out.

And she’d found herself following his lead, playing along as he’d given her a handful of brief, seemingly disconnected instructions—loosen the table cloth at table seven, tell Captain Tempest that Admiral Roman wants a word, switch that tray of crudites for _this_ tray of caviar—she’d really not known what to do except to go along with it. He’d done the bulk of the work, anyway.

For as aimless as he’d been with a tray full of shrimp, Cooper is clever and entirely purposeful in the act of carefully shuffling party guests around the room, nudging furniture and committing minor acts of sabotage. He seems to have taken in the movement of the room at a glance, and has some innate, inherent understanding of just how and where and why to move which people, and she watches him, fascinated, as he arrays the room around their intended target.

All she’d _hoped_ for was his help in creating a diversion. Something that would draw the attention of the room, and allow her to slip into position near the Commander of the Conch, and to slip a hand into her pocket, and nick a sensitive piece of intelligence. A small thing. Trifling. Nothing she doesn’t consider herself perfectly entitled to take. She hadn’t expected the entire ballroom to be rendered into a state of artfully orchestrated chaos, with Rear Admiral Shore and the British Security Consul squarely at the center, sprawled into indignity and soaked in seafood stew.

It’s tremendously impressive. She finds herself impressed to the point that she almost forgets to skip nimbly into the middle of the fray, to bend down in the name of helping Admiral Shore to her feet, and snatch a small hard drive from the commander’s pocket, stashing it within her own. She seizes the edge of a nearby table cloth and swipes at the admiral’s face, prattles something miscellaneous in her affected Boston accent, gives herself an excuse for the proximity.

A hand seizes her elbow and Cooper gives an insistent, urgent tug, announcing loudly, “With your permission, Admiral. We’ll get some towels so we can clean up.”

_Perfection._

The warmth of his hand leaves her arm, falls to grasp her fingers instead, and he helps her up and over the sprawl of various dignitaries, and quickly extracts them both through the chaos of the ballroom. She catches a glimpse of her father as they go, but before she knows what’s happened, they’re approaching the threshold of the main door, and she loses sight of him, has to turn her attention back to Cooper instead.

Pushing the doors open had freed her hand from his, and a tiny part of her regrets this. But the greater part of her is absolutely _thrumming_ with the success of her tiny heist, the little lump of plastic and silicon that’s secreted away in her breast pocket. And she hadn’t even needed to ditch Cooper in the middle of it all, to pin the whole thing on him.

He gets hung up by the door for a moment, and she gets far enough ahead of him to want to start to consider exit strategies. Probably she should take off properly, slip the line and disappear. Her father will have seen the debacle in the middle of the ballroom, will have known it for exactly what it was. He’ll be expecting her, and it’ll be time to make her exit.

Except—

 _He_ catches up and his hand closes around her arm again. It’s funny—and a different sort of thrilling—that he hasn’t displayed the slightest hesitance about touching her. He seems to gravitate to her right side. Within the past five minutes he’s patted her shoulder, taken her hand. Careful, but confident. Penelope wonders if that’s just part of being Lilian; if something about the redhead invites casual contact. Maybe that’s something she can work with, even as he pulls her up short and says, “Hold up a second.”

So she turns into him, takes a half-step forward and allows some of the genuine joy, the sheer _delight_ at her imminent success, to bleed through. Penelope’s is a life of reserve, of soft, slight smiles and gracious nods. But Lilian lights up, grins so wide that her _cheeks_ hurt and her voice is bright, bubbly and Bostonian when she declares, not even feigning her admiration, “That was wicked. You’re a pro, Coop. When you – And she – Mint!”

The lighting in the corridor doesn’t quite wash out the slight flush of colour to his cheeks, but there’s something reticent in his tone as he says, “Thanks.”

And then his hand comes up and there’s the softest, slightest touch at the breast pocket of her uniform—and really, quite honestly, he’s lucky that she doesn’t break his arm just out of reflex—and that Lilian’s only response is a slow, not-quite-protesting “Heyyyy...”

Until, at least, she realizes that he’s taken the thumb drive and is holding it up in judgement. Those brown eyes have hardened, his jaw has set; he’d been _cute_ before, but he’s properly handsome now, and _stern_ as he says, ““What the hell is this?” Oh _dear_. “This is classified, important stuff. Did you steal this?”

 _Carefully, now, very carefully_ —she drops her gaze to the floor, her shoulders fall and all the light leaves her voice. Lilian’s been pulled out of class plenty of times, pulled up in front of all manner of disappointed authority figures, she knows this song and dance. Lilian’s let plenty of people down. “Yah. No. Maybe. I dunno. It was just there, right? Admiral Shore dropped it, and she made me so gawdam mad and I thought, well what’s the harm, right? Maybe she loses it for a while. Maybe she learns her lesson.”

There’s a flash of irritation in Cooper’s dark eyes and she hasn’t succeeded in softening him in the slightest, as far as she can tell. _Drat_. “Or maybe she puts the whole place in lockdown, there’s a diplomatic incident and we’re both arrested.” He pockets the drive. “We don’t know what’s on this. It could be serious shit.”

The problem with Cooper, apparently, is that he’s not actually as dumb as he looks. There’s something sharper, shrewder beneath that sunshine smile. It’s very annoying.

She’s going to need to cry. Her eyes are already welling up obligingly and her lower lip quivers as she attempts to sound chastised. “’msorry. I didn’t think. I’m so stupid.”

His hands come up to her shoulders again, both of them. As disappointed as he is, the tears have done it, and she can tell he doesn’t want her to cry. Wants to give her a second chance, _certainly_ doesn’t want to get her into trouble. He’s still stern, but his voice softens just slightly as he says, “We’ve got to put this back now. You know that, right?”

Penelope nods and gives a shaky, shuddery sigh. A blink frees a tear from the corner of her eye and she feels it trace alongside her nose, even as her voice starts to break again, “I’m so sorry. You’ve been so nice and kind and now I’m gonna get you in trouble. And all you ever did was try to help me. And I never even thanked you properly. Oh Cooper!”

She flings herself at him, trembling like a leaf. One of his arms slips automatically around her waist, his hand rests lightly at her back, as her fingers clench in the front of his jacket.

And, if she’s honest, he’s warm and tall and strong. He smells _lovely_. And she likes that he’s clever and funny and has a wicked, mischievous streak. She likes that he’d investigate the sound of a girl crying, and come to the rescue. _Loves_ that he’d take a small, fictitious slight against poor Lilian’s rather shabby honour and exact revenge on a scale that throws an entire ballroom into pandemonium. And, even if it diametrically opposes her own personal goals and ambitions, rather likes that he knows right from wrong.

So she’s hopeful, actually, when she looks up at him and meets those warm, slightly startled brown eyes. She’s thrilled when his arm around her tightens slightly, pulls her just a little bit closer. She’s close enough to catch the tiniest hint of bacon, still on his breath. And in the back of Lilian’s mind, Penelope’s voice whispers, _Oh, do it. Please, oh, please, I should love to get the proper measure of you, right here and now. Fateful moments in access corridors. Kiss me and I’ll kiss you back, and then I’ll take your hand and tell you secrets and spirit you away. You’re not who you say you are, but neither am I and that’s why it’s fun. Let’s embarrass the British government and sell their secrets to the highest bidder. Let’s nick one of those ridiculous submarines and make a break for Hawaii. Let’s get in some_ **_real_** _trouble, Cooper Waverly. You’d better be at least nineteen. You haven’t seen_ **_anything_** _yet._

But the moment passes. And even as she feels him start to tense, start to draw away, one of her hands has crossed behind her back and beneath the hem of her jacket, flipped open a stolen pair of handcuffs. Her movements are swift and subtle and she’s quick and clever and before he knows just what he’s missed out on, she’s already pressed a soft kiss against his cheek, snatched back her rightfully stolen secret,and cuffed him to a length of iron pipe, just above his head.

The thunk of metal on metal seems to snap him out of her spell and he exclaims, “ _Hey!_ ”

He’s quick enough that he nearly grabs her, but Penelope’s sense of dramatics and theatrically inhabiting a role is born of fifteen years of ballet, and she darts nimbly, easily out of his reach.

And, if she’s honest (which she isn’t, usually), the sight of him bewildered and gaping and _betrayed_ is probably almost as good and maybe even _better_ than kissing him would have been. It had mostly been Lilian who’d wanted to kiss him, anyway. Lilian falls in love _far_ too easily. And Lilian’s had her turn.

Lilian won’t enjoy this next part in the _least_.

So it’s Penelope who says, with perfect elocution and her polished, aristocratic English, and, most importantly, with _glee_ , “It’s been tremendous fun, darling, but I really do have to go.”

* * *

She’s on her way up to the helipad when he catches up with her, which—well, she can hardly believe it because:

A) She’d left him handcuffed to a pipe.

B) Naval cadets don’t exactly carry lockpicks about on their person, generally.

C) She’d let it slip that she had a _boat_ to catch, hoping on the off-chance that someone happened along to let him loose, he would lead them in pursuit of Lilian Schloss-Krunfield in her dress uniform, on her way down to the quayside.

She’s getting rid of said dress uniform (and good _riddance_ ) when he catches up to her, and he skids around the corner with a shout of, “Hey, you! Freeze!”

Penelope does nothing of the kind and instead turns on her heel and smiles at him as the recycling chute hatch slams shut. She’s retrieved a slim grey dress from the cache she’d prepared early in the proceedings, when she’d first mapped out her escape route. Her fingertips smooth over the Peter Pan collar, she bounces lightly on the toes of her patent black flats, smile widening as she looks him up and down, where he's stopped just short of arm’s reach, _glaring at her_.

Oh, but he’s _cute_. And he’s gotten this far, which is far further than she expected. Penelope means it genuinely when she comments, “You’re more resourceful than I gave you credit for. How interesting.” Her eyes look him up and down again—slightly rumpled, but not even remotely out of breath, presumably having run all the way up through six levels in pursuit. Her gaze lingers on the black circle of a lens, poised like a pen behind his left ear. She pretends not to be thrown off by the sudden appearance of a camera. “And who’s your friend?”

The way his fingertips go to his ear, it’s possible _he’s_ forgotten it was there—but he grits his teeth and says, “ _My friend_ has been filming your every antic. Lift one finger and he’ll post the footage to the web for everyone to see. He’ll bring the entire security force down on your head.”

That’s rather distressing. She narrows her eyes at him, wonders if he might be bluffing. Cooper must take the change in her expression as an indication that she’s rattled, because he points at her sharply and says, “You’re going to give me back that disk.”

Well, no. She isn’t. And she frowns at him, takes a step back, is about to let him know just how mistaken he is on that count, when he makes a sudden lunge in her direction.

How to sense when people mean her harm is possibly the single most important lesson Parker had ever taught her, and she’s learnt it well and thoroughly. Well enough to tell that Cooper doesn’t, actually, mean her any harm. The ways in which one tells such a thing are myriad, minute. Penelope reads people’s body language like a musician reads music, and the tenor of the situation isn’t the sort that sends that creeping cold feeling up her spine. He doesn’t want to hurt her. He only wants exactly what he’s told her he does; the stolen disk. Even if his hand had properly connected to the elbow he’d made a grab for, he wouldn’t have been rough, only firm. He really wouldn’t have wanted to hurt her.

It is, sadly, not a disinclination they share.

He’s taller than she is. Nicely, pleasantly tall. Not so tall that she can’t exert the correct amount of leverage to pin his face against the wall. He outweighs her by probably at least half her own body weight, and with his arm wrenched sharply behind his back and her fist buried in a handful of his honey-gold hair, she can _feel_ the muscularity to him, the sense of strength she’d only gotten the barest impression of, between all those casual little touches, and that brief, lovely embrace.

But he’s clearly not used to pain, sharply and expertly applied. If she were to twist his arm _just-so_ , she could pop his elbow right out of its socket, and he clearly senses the threat, with her grip like iron about his wrist. Her fingers bite into his coarse curls, twisting against the skin of his scalp. Penelope feels him shudder just slightly, before he thinks better of any attempt at a sudden movement.

She clears her throat primly and has to stretch her calves, pushing up to her tiptoes to murmur in his ear, “Now you really are going to have to calm down.” She wonders idly if the citrusy scent is bodywash or cologne. “Or I’ll have to put you to sleep.”

Penelope only means that she’ll apply a few carefully calculated seconds of pressure to the arteries in the sides of his neck, and five-four-three-two-one—out he’ll go. But he must think she’s speaking euphemistically because he startles at this, and there’s a strangled (though not literally) attempt at protest, muffled by the fact that she’s still got his face pinned to the wall.

“MMMPH!? Mmmph-mmph?”

It occurs to her that he might be just the tiniest bit afraid of her, and she rolls her eyes. “Not remotely what I meant,” she chides. “Now, I’m going to ease up a little, be a good boy and don’t scream.”

She loosens her hold on the back of his head just slightly, lets him pull his face off the wall. For as clever and quick as she’d been beginning to think he might be, the first thing he says is something frightfully stupid, “You can’t take that disk!”

Must be the adrenaline. Penelope resists the urge to laugh at him and shakes her head instead, a ripple of her falsely red hair shimmying over her shoulders. “Can’t I? What are you going to do about it?” Her hold on the back of his head has relaxed somewhat, but she’s still got her palm buried in his thick golden hair, and she gives his scalp a few charitable strokes, some small comfort for the damage done. He has rather nice hair. And from her vantage point here, she can see that it’s true, actual blond, right to the roots. No dusty brown or lurking ginger, just natural, sunkissed gold.

“I...I’m gonna...”

He has no idea, and Penelope can tell by the way his voice falters, by the way his shoulders sag. He doesn’t know what he _should_ do, but even if he did, she suspects he doesn’t know why he _shouldn’t do it_ , either.

So she tells him. “If I could make a suggestion,” she says, “You could scream. Deputy Commander Roman and his personal guard are less than thirty metres down that corridor. If you shout they’ll hear you. You could raise the alarm. Cause a major diplomatic incident. Save the day. Be the hero of the hour. And I’m sure when everything is settled down your seniors will turn to each other and say, ‘we should commend this brave cadet. Just who is this _Cooper Waverly_?’’”

Penelope allows that to sink in. She’s changed her mind in at least one regard. She’s going to be at least somewhat sad if his name _isn’t_ Cooper Waverly. It’s grown on her. Leroy she can take or leave, but she’s gotten quite fond of Cooper. She wonders about who his partner is, whether they’ve put him up to this, or whether he’s the driving force, and whoever’s looking through the camera is just along for the ride. She's a little jealous of his partner for getting to him first. Still. She's also gotten fond enough of Cooper to offer him an out,“Or, you could let me go about my business and you can go about yours and no one has to be any the wiser. Doesn’t that sound like something that might be more beneficial to us both?”

To his credit, he nods.

“Very sensible.” Penelope pulls back further, eases up on the twist of his arm, releases the pressure that’s kept his torso pinned against the wall.

She makes the naive mistake of assuming he’s just getting his breath back when he inhales deeply—

—and then _shouts_ , “Hey! Help! Over he-”

And she’s _sorry_ that she has to hit him. She really is; she _regrets_ it. He’s got an unbearably handsome face and it’s a shame to mar it with what’s going to be a black eye before the day’s out. Penelope _knows_ how to hit people—thanks ever so much once again, Parker—and so he staggers, but keeps his feet, even as she sighs to herself, “A brain and a conscience, what am I going to do with you two?”

He must be younger than she is, to be so naive. She’s a little put out about that, and it’s with growing irritation that she drums her fingertips on the wall against his head. “Alright, junior-”

“ _Mmf-mu_?!”

“New deal. I will return the disk to you and in return you and your friend will let me waltz right out of here. No harm. No fuss. What do you think?”

This time he tries to shrug away from her, growls. “Why should I believe you?”

It would be dishonest to pretend she didn’t like him better when he liked her as Lilian. She’s starting to to think he might not care for Penelope. Oh well. “This is a limited time offer, darling. Otherwise you’re going down the rubbish chute in three, two, one…” She dangles the disk in front of his nose.

And he nods. This time she lets him go completely, permits him to sag against the wall as she steps back, gives him room to catch his breath. True to her word, she proffers the disk, lets it sit flat on her palm as though she’s offering a sugar cube to a nippy stallion.

Cooper snatches it away like he expects another trick, and stuffs it back into his jacket pocket. He glares at her again. “You’re crazy, lady.”

 _Lady_. Silly creature. And yet—there’s something about his face, something about the way he absolutely _glowers_ at her...something that makes him seem so familiar, once again. Penelope doesn’t _think_ she’s been rumbled, but she’s learned to trust her instincts, when it comes to familiar faces. She applies a little more gentle flattery, probing, “And you’re a little bit brave. And more moral than I gave you credit for. Who are you, really?”

“Like I’d tell you!”

He’s an absolute amateur, whoever he is. Penelope can’t help an arch, knowing smile. “I think you mean, ‘I’m Cooper Waverly, WASP cadet, Ma’am,’ Don’t you?’”

This time he blushes to the roots of his hair and swallows, gives her a short, grudging nod. “Right. Yeah.”

He starts to back away, but she’s properly intrigued now, and she pounces on him, seizes his hand.

“I don’t think so. You’re going to escort me out. It wouldn’t do for a lady to be wandering around WASP unaccompanied.”

“Forget-”

He squirms, but she’s not about to let him go. There’s something damningly, infuriatingly familiar about him the more uncomfortable he gets, and it’s growing in significance by the moment. Still, she plays it arch and cool as she keeps a firm hold of his arm. “Think what mischief she might get up to. And I want to make sure you don’t try anymore funny business. Come along, Cadet. It’s only proper.”

He hangs back for only the briefest moment, before he permits himself to be tugged along, with her arm wound through his and her hand resting lightly just above his wrist. So she’s lost her prize (or so it would seem, at least for the moment), Penelope still feels as though she might have seized hold of another trophy. There’s not much longer to figure this out—her father’s helicopter is due to depart in the next ten minutes, and she’s wasted a great deal of time on Cooper Waverly.

She still can’t quite see the harm in wasting a little bit more, though.

* * *

He gets more out of her than she gets out of him, the rest of the way up to the helipad.

It’s just that she wants to _explain_ , wants to make him understand, just what she’s done and why it’s thrilling and why she would rather like it if he might want to do it, too. She wants him to know that it’s not as bad as it seems, that she’s not a _villain_ —just that information is like the tide, or a current, or some other WASPy, watery concept. It just flows from place to place, and sometimes it gets helped along, or dammed up, or just evaporates into thin air and then comes back down some other place.

He remains stubbornly indifferent to her take on things, and damningly, by the end of it, has her convinced that they know each other from somewhere. She doesn’t know where or when, but when he stops dead in the hallway and stops her along with him, she cedes the point when he guesses who she really is.

He’s probably earned that much, at least.

But it’s his reaction that surprises her, the way heat flashes into his tone, the way he seems offended, indignant on her behalf, regarding the notion that it’s her father who’s put her up to this, and that he’s going to punish her for failing.

The actual notion and nature of the punishment is meant with a sarcastic drawl, “That must be _so_ difficult for you.”

But the other...Cooper shakes his head, and for a moment Penelope’s struck by the fact that he actually seems distressed. “This is crazy. What sort of a Dad is okay with their kid being a… deceitful… manipulative… spy… manipulator…person?”

There’s something in his sincere concern that has her wondering about _his_  parents. Makes her wonder what he might be hiding from, if he’s hiding at all. She wants to ask, _And does your father know where_ **_you_** _are, Cooper, darling?_ But even just as an impulse, this seems like it might be cruel. So instead she pauses and gives some thought to her answer. Laughs at the notion that he would worry, because of course her father worries too. But her father’s never done anything remotely like attempting to stop her, and had only ever made sure that her choice was well-considered. “Of course he’s not okay with it. He’d rather I went into fashion or publishing or some other equally tedious occupation. But he’d rather deal with the daughter he has and make sure she’s safe and good at her job then waste his time wishing for the daughter he doesn’t. ”

That, at least, shuts him up.

When they teach the door out onto the helipad on one of the Conch's upper decks, Penelope stops, and relishes a moment that she hadn't know she'd get. With a silvery laugh and the offhanded comment (lie), that she'd "almost forgot", Penelope expertly undoes several clips and pins, curls her fingers around the cap of her brassy red wig, and does away with Lilian for good.

She's even a little bit sorry to see her go, but this feeling evaporates as she tosses her pale blonde hair loosely over her shoulders. The heat and sweat from being pinned up beneath the wig have given her hair gorgeous, perfectly formed ringlets, and Cooper actually _gapes_ at her. She beams at him. Blondes, after all, have more fun.

When she holds out her arm again, he takes it almost without acting as though she's offered him a live snake.

The wind on the upper deck is cold and she would shiver, but she's all aglow inside and flushed with pleasure, and Cooper's arm is warm and besides that, he makes an excellent windbreak. She wonders if he's gotten chilly, the way he's stiffened slightly, the way his step isn't quite as quick.

Across the tarmac, surrounded by various members of WASP'S top brass, her father waits.

Lord Hugh is about a hundred times more imposing in his clean grey suit than any of the people who surround him in uniform. She glances up and sees Cooper swallow, nervously, and she has to give him a nudge to get him to keep walking. Poor thing. Penelope remembers that he's a little bit afraid of her, and rather guiltily, she gives his arm a gentle squeeze. "It really is all right," she promises softly, "I won't give you away."

He nods, but something about him is glazing over. Slack-jawed and dull-eyed, his brown eyes lose their spark, his expression grows slightly blank and somnambulant. It's remarkable to watch it happen, but she can't be distracted, because as they approach, her father calls, "Darling, we've been waiting."

Penelope bows her head in gracious apology, even as Cooper delivers her right up onto the helipad. "Sorry, Papa," she says, and then gestures with her freehand to her newly wooden toy sailor. "I’m afraid I wanted to see the aquarium and I got all turned around. This is Cadet Cooper Waverly, Papa. He was kind enough to escort me."

“Good afternoon, _Cadet Waverly_.” Her father, and she loves him for it, gives Cooper an evaluating once over, before reaching out to shake his hand. “And congratulations on your recent victory. A national gold medal, wasn’t it?”

_Oh._

Penelope knows that her surprise plays on her face, but doesn't note who notices. _She_ still doesn't know who he is, but her father does. Another data point.

Instead of shaking her father's hand, Cooper lets her arm fall from his and snaps a salute instead. "Thank you, sir."

"Shall I send your regards to your father when I see him next?"

Penelope doesn't imagine that he goes perhaps a shade paler and there's the very tiniest stammer as he says, "I'd rather you didn't, sir."

You'd have to know Lord Hugh as well as his daughter does to see the slight glimmer of intrigue in his eyes. Cooper Waverly has just been chloroformed to death and carefully examined, and is now pinned to a white card in her father's memory, with a common and a true name printed neatly underneath. But what her father says, turning to her, is, “Penny, we really must go. We need to be in Washington by six.”

"Yes, Papa."

Only there's one last, trifling little thing.

So she turns to look up at Not-Cooper, and doesn't get to say all the things she's thinking about him. That he's handsome and funny and sweet and brave and maybe in another time and place they'll get to make another go of it. That she _likes_ him, even if he hates her, and hopes they'll see each other again. Her eyes and the flush of her cheeks do the talking for her, because all she can reasonably say is, "Thank you _so much_ , Cadet Waverly."

There are six officers and her father present, and the set of Cooper's jaw is enough to indicate that there's plenty _he'd_ like to say to _her_ , but that present company makes it impossible. Or anyway, borderline _suicidal_. Instead he says, "Yes, ma'am. Just doing my _duty_ , ma'am."

The slightest emphasis laid upon the word "duty" makes her heart all but _sing_. Penelope even slips a note of regret, of conceded defeat into her tone as she says, "Well, goodbye."

He must be relieved to see her turn away, to start up the stairs up to the helicopter where her father is already seated. She's even happy enough for him that she shares a certain mutual pleasure at what he must think is a moment of victory.

Then she turns back around and throws her arms around him. Takes a deep, deliberate breath and really does love the way he smells. Hopes he notices her appreciation.

Parker taught her how to pick a pocket, so she knows he doesn't feel her hand as it darts inside his jacket. But, well.

He's not an idiot.

"Hey!" he protests, but remains paralyzed by the presence of the WASP high command. He can't even glare at her as she smiles up at him. It's possible that Penelope has been just slightly dishonest with herself and her nature. _Smile and smile and be a villain._

Still, she's a villain who apologizes, even has the courtesy to act embarrassed. "I'm sorry." And she does mean it, at least a little. She turns away from him and to one of his superiors. "Thank you for your hospitality, Admiral Roman."

And then she's away, up and into the helicopter. The door slides closed behind her as the blades of the bird begin to whirl to life. She pretends to focus her attention on getting settled and seated, and doesn't look up until some impulse seems, to tell her she really should.

And she meets a pair of brown eyes, and notes the way they catch the sunlight. And Penelope hopes, rather dearly, that it's not for the last time. Her smile at him is genuine, though she's too much of a lady to wink, she does say, softly and mostly to herself, " _See you next time._ "

She likes to think she sees him smile, just before the helicopter lifts off, and pulls away.


End file.
